


Just Happy To See You

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Closet Sex, Community: salt_burn_porn, Frottage, M/M, Tight Spaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for <a href="http://andreth47.livejournal.com">andreth47</a>'s prompt: "Can I rub this off on you?"  Many thanks for a quick beta from the same!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Happy To See You

+++

  
Dean's voice comes out of the darkness. "Goddamn it, Sam."

"In what universe," Sam huffs, trying to figure out where his hands are, "is this my fault?"

"In the universe where you said, 'hey Dean, there's a poltergeist in Nebraska.'" His voice goes all high and falsetto, and Sam totally doesn't sound like that. "'Let's go check it out.'"

Sam grumbles, "I totally don't sound like that," and he shifts awkwardly. A stray nail is digging into his back, and the closet ceiling slopes steeply with the pitch of the staircase over their heads. The space is microscopic. Dean's whole body is pressed up against Sam, and his Beretta is jammed between them, digging into Sam's thigh. Sam shifts again.

"Sam," Dean says, "knock it off," from somewhere near Sam's right shoulder, and Sam can feel the warm puff of air through his shirt.

Sam sighs, long-suffering. "It's fucking cramped in here."

"You don't think I know that," Dean says. He shifts this time, and Sam hears the clatter of the gear bag being dropped on the floor. Sam gropes his way to the closet door, feeling for a handle. This move puts his face right against Dean's bicep, and the muscle tenses against his cheek. Dean's hand brushes his lower back, still holding the _gris gris_ bag he had hold of when they were tossed in here.

Sam can't find a handle. "Shit," he mutters, relaxing, and Dean 'hmm's a query. "I don't know that there's a way out of here," Sam explains, "short of busting the door down."

"And we've got tons of leverage," Dean says. "Seriously, Sam, stop moving. You're--" He stops.

"What, Dean?" Sam grouses. He can feel sweat running down his back, his temples, and the closet smells like mold.

"You've got your leg--" Dean starts again, and cuts off _again_. He makes a little noise, in his throat, as Sam puts his weight on his other foot, trying to figure out where he's got his leg.

Oh. _Oh._

He's got his leg wedged between Dean's thighs, with so little space in the closet that he's actually got Dean pinned to the wall. Dean clears his throat, and the cold metal of his Beretta touches Sam's other hip. His Beretta, which is in his hand.

"Are you _hard_ right now?" Sam asks, as if the answer isn't wedged into the groove of his hip. Dean makes another noise, this time noncommittal, and Sam grins in the dark. He can't see Dean's face, but he knows it would be creased in irritation and embarrassment right now. Dean doesn't like getting distracted during a case. They don't fuck a whole lot when they're on a job, but Sam is definitely not going to miss this opportunity.

There's nobody _in_ the house, anyway. Just the poltergeist. Smashing windows upstairs, Sam thinks, if he's hearing correctly.

He shifts his weight again, this time into Dean, and Dean breathes in sharply. "Sam," he warns, but Sam ignores him and turns his head so he can press his lips to Dean's throat. Dean hasn't shaved in about two days, and the scrape of his stubble against Sam's cheek is like fine grade sandpaper. Sam drags his tongue up the length of Dean's throat, to the corner of his jaw, and bites down gently.

"Sam," Dean says again, but he sounds a lot less pissed this time. His breathing is shallow, his pulse hammering under Sam's lips. Sam hears him swallow, and he presses a kiss to Dean's jaw, and then cheek, finding his way to his mouth.

Dean opens for him immediately, slick and hot and tasting like French fries and _want_. Sam lets go of the _gris gris_ bag he's in charge of and slides his hand up Dean's side instead, under his shirt, curling his fingers around the curve of Dean's ribs. Dean reaches back and tucks the Beretta in Sam's back pocket, and then grabs his ass and pulls his hips against his own. His dick is a hard line in his jeans, and Sam grinds against him deliberately, still kissing him.

He skims his hand around to Dean's chest, rubbing his thumb over one of Dean's nipples, then the other. Dean groans into his mouth and hitches his hips up, and Sam wants desperately to get his mouth on Dean's chest, lick and suck until Dean's whimpering (which he denies later, adamantly) and clutching at Sam's head. But if he does that he'll lose the leverage he has with his thigh against Dean's crotch, and Dean's already rolling his hips, rubbing the bulge of his dick against Sam's leg.

Sam decides this position is better, and licks at Dean's mouth until Dean is whimpering anyway, trying to get higher on Sam's hip. Sam's own cock, hard now as well, is tight against Dean's thigh, and every time Dean moves it sends a warm wave of pleasure through him. He can feel Dean trembling, both hands on Sam's ass, encouraging him. Dean breaks the kiss to put his cheek against Sam's and pant into his ear, and it shouldn't be sexy, Dean _breathing_ on him, but there's an undercurrent of noise coming out of him that Sam's sure he's not conscious of, with every rock of his hips. He's just _using_ Sam, rubbing off on him like a dog in heat or something, and Sam can't get enough.

He can feel his cock leaking in his boxers, soaking the cotton, and he goes back to biting at Dean's neck. Dean tilts his head back, giving Sam room as he humps his thigh. Sam lets his hand drop back to the small of Dean's back—wet with sweat—and he murmurs, "Think I could fuck you?"

"Oh jesus," Dean groans, half-laughing, and he spreads his legs a little. Sam thinks he might be taking almost all of Dean's weight right now, with Dean just riding his thigh like this.

"There's not a lot of room," Sam goes on.

"Shut up," Dean says. Sam can hear the fond amusement in his voice. "Please shut up."

He can't resist though. "There _might_ be enough room," he says, "if you turned around and I got on my knees. I could rim you right here, lick you open until you begged me to fuck you."

"Oh god," Dean says, and Sam hears the thump of his head falling back against the wall. "Sam."

Sam pushes his hand down the back of Dean's pants, into his shorts, fingertips sliding into his crack. "I could," he says. "Then maybe I'd finger you, but." He presses the pad of his middle finger against Dean's hole. "The angle's wrong. If you're turned around I mean. So I might have to fuck you without stretching you too much."

Dean's moan is shorter, sharper, and Sam pushes, arm bent awkwardly around Dean's body, finger breaching his entrance. He rocks his hips in counterpoint to Dean, pressing in as far as he can, which is only the littlest bit, but he rubs his finger in a deliberate circle. Dean says, "Ah!" hips jerking, cock pulsing against Sam's leg, and Sam knows he's about ten seconds from coming.

So he does it again, and says, "You're so fucking hot, Dean," as he bites Dean's neck. Dean's breath hitches, his fingers clench, and Sam swears he can feel Dean get even harder.

Then he's shouting, back arching as he comes in his jeans, and Sam wishes he could see Dean's face. The sharp smell of come, and Dean's sweat, and the feeling of him shuddering between Sam's body and the wall, are all driving him up to his peak, and he muffles a groan against Dean's shoulder.

Dean recovers fairly quickly, squeezing Sam's ass and urging him on, pulling until he picks up the rhythm again, rubbing hard against Dean's hip. Dean's mouthing at his neck, pushing the collar of his shirt aside with his face, teeth sharp and gentle, just pressure and nowhere near pain.

"Fuck me like you mean it," he demands, muffled, and Sam obeys, humping Dean's hip, shorts and jeans chafing, pleasure building up and up. He can feel the slippery slide of Dean's jeans against Dean's body, can imagine how slick it is against his skin, all sticky and warm and wet, and he comes abruptly, grunting in surprise as Dean bites him again.

Then Dean's laughing, breathlessly, and Sam presses a kiss to his throat and lifts his head. Dean finds his mouth in the darkness and kisses him, deep and slow. Then he jerks them both suddenly sideways, ramming the closet door. The door crashes open and sends them sprawling to the ground. Dean untangles himself from Sam's arms and clambers to his feet. Sam can feel his boxers starting to stick to him, and he gets up as well, aftershocks of his orgasm still darting up his legs.

"Get the bag, asshole," Dean says, pointing. He's grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "And let's get out of here. I need a fucking shower."

+++


End file.
